Clockwork II
by Laelyn24
Summary: One boy. One girl. Two very different lives. But one day the barrier between their two lives is broken...
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I believe that at this point we've established that I do not own Newsies._

_A/N: So when you're inspired, you're inspired, right? Well, I was, so that's why you are getting the follow-up to Clockwork. It's not imperative that you read Clockwork before this piece, but it might be helpful. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and don't forget to leave a review! :) CTB!_

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Clockwork II

The day began like any other. I was shaken awake at an ungodly hour by one of the girls that my parents employed to keep our home in order. In my typical response, I swatted at her and pulled the covers over my head until she left the room. After a few moments, I tossed the bedclothes off and sat up, squinting against the brightness pouring in through uncovered window. Slipping from my bed, I crossed to it and slid the pane up, letting in a gust of fresh morning air. It woke me up more effectively than the maid had.

My moment of euphoria and feeling at ease with the world was short lived as there came a knock at my door. It was not much of a guess as to who would enter; my life was kept to the same awful routine day in and day out.

"Come in!"

I turned from the window to see Kate, my own personal maid, slide gingerly into the room, bobbing her head as a respectful greeting. I secretly despised that little nod, which she gives each and every time she comes and goes from my sight; it's a crude symbol of the status that we each hold. Her purpose is to attend to my every whim.

"Good morning, miss," Kate said, greeting me with another little bob of her head. She immediately whisked over to the wardrobe to retrieve a selection of dresses that I would then choose from.

While she rummaged about my excessive possessions, I settled onto the cushioned stool in front of the vanity to wait. As usual, Kate pulled out some of the more lavish day dresses first. I declined each of them, not seeing a reason to dress elegantly when my only excitement would be attending lessons; there was no need to be fashionable for them. When I still hadn't chosen, it was obvious that Kate was growing impatient, but I knew she was holding out on what I really wanted. So I helped her along.

"Something simple today, please Kate?"

She sighed, knowing exactly which dress I was implying. A grin touched my lips when she pulled out my favorite dress. It was one of my older dresses--a lovely pale yellow, nothing too fancy--having the look of one that had been worn many times over, more so than might be appropriate, but I didn't care. It was what I wanted.

Kate helped me dress and then plaited my hair. Upon completion I surveyed myself in the mirror, satisfied with the image looking back at me. At my dismissal, Kate scurried from the room to begin her day of household chores. I followed soon after to join my parents for a bit of breakfast.

My father, regal and handsome, sat at the head of the long ornate table while my mother sat to his right. His eyes held the slight glazed over look of one who wanted to appear as if he were paying attention, but really was not. The reason behind his expression was my mother, who was talking animatedly, probably about the latest society gossip--something that never seemed to interest my father. She was so involved with whatever she was going on about that my entrance went unnoticed until I pulled out my chair.

"Good morning," my father said brightly, happily cutting off my mother in mid-sentence. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you," I replied politely, returning his smile. We both hated the formality, but we endured it for my mother's sake. She was a rather finicky woman, who believed that children would only learn the proper behavior and etiquette that was expected of them through practice--even in the home. "Good morning, mother."

I never liked this ritual of having breakfast together; there was never anything to talk about unless the family had attended some gathering on the evening before. There had been nothing last night, so conversation was limited to whatever societal gossip my mother had unearthed; she had a terrible taste for anything that might smell like a scandal. I was like my father, uninterested in the doings of our peers. I simply wanted to move on to the more pleasant parts of my day.

My timing was usually quite good, but today it was impeccable; I only had to feign an interest for a couple of minutes before the food was served. Wanting to make quick work of my meal, I shoveled down the food as best I could without breaking one of the sacred rules, but my mother's keen eye caught onto my haste.

"Pace yourself, darling. You will upset your stomach that way," she scolded, taking dainty bites of her own food as an example. "It does not suit a lady to eat so quickly."

Reluctantly I complied to my mother's wishes, slowing to a pace that a snail would likely find agreeable. As I chewed carefully, I kept my eye on the old grandfather clock that sat in the corner of the room. It was my one scrap of sanity during these painful morning ordeals. I waited until the minute hand rested on bronze five and gulped down the last of my orange juice.

"May I please be excused?" I asked, already halfway out of my seat.

My father wiped his mouth on his napkin, giving a nod that overrode the lecture the mother looked about to give me.

"Of course." He winked knowingly. "There are a couple of coins on the table by the door for you."

I grinned at my father and then walked mannerly through the door. When I reached the hallway, all formality was lost and I sprinted down the hallway toward the front door. I slowed only to scoop the coins from the small, decorative table that stood in the middle of the entrance hall. In any other moment I would say how I hated that little table because it often got in my way, but right now I had something else on my mind as I walked out the front door and onto the streets of Manhattan.


	2. Chapter 2

It just so happened that my home in Manhattan was situated on the corner of a busy intersection where there was always a never-ending parade of fancy streetcars, primped carriages, and just about every type of person the city of New York had to offer. I think most people would hate to live on a street where there is so much commotion--my mother complained about it often enough--but I embraced it with open arms.

I could sit for hours in the drawing room, watching the swarms of people pass by the windows; I would never get bored. People just fascinate me, because not one is the same as the next and they all have their own story to tell.

Seamlessly I worked my way into the current of people traveling toward the nearest corner. Waiting for a break in the carriages, I was surrounded by the black overcoats of businessmen still trying to find their way to work. Impatiently, I jingled the coins that were trapped in my fist and listened with my trained ear for the one voice that I wanted to hear above all others; the voice that haunted me in the dead of the night.

"Extra! Extra! 'Nother tenement up in flames. Six people dead. Police suspect foul play."

Although it was impossible for me to see him, I knew who belonged to that voice; he was one of the many newsboys that sold for the likes of Mr. Pulitzer and Mr. Hearst. He was the newsboy who alway sold on my corner. I like to think of him as my newsboy, though he is anything but mine.

I stepped forward, crossing the street with the crowd; my fingertips tingled with anticipation. The crowd split, hurrying off in different directions and I got the first glimpse of him, waving a single copy of the newspaper over his head--the rest in a pile by his feet--shouting at the top of his voice. His eyes swept through the streams of people, trying to lure them into a purchase.

He caught my gaze and our eyes locked onto one anothers. He held that same expectant gaze that I had grown to love over the past year. We exchanged smiles; it was nothing more than a pleasant acknowledgement, but my heart fluttered with a desire that would never be fulfilled. Swallowing those feelings, I asked him the same question that I ask everyday,

"May I have one newspaper, please?"

He nodded with a smile and passed a single copy of the newspaper to me. I took it and then dropped the two nickels into his ink-stained hand, wishing that it could be my hand in their place. His voice filled my head with the words that would linger in my mind for hours when I returned home.

"Thank you, miss," he said with his bright smile.

My heart gave another flutter as I thanked him. Slowly and almost unwillingly I turned to leave. I struggled to resist the urge to turn back to him--to have the conversation with him that I have replayed over and over in my mind. I wanted to, but I knew it was best if I did not.

And then the unexplainable happened. I will never know how it happened, or perhaps why, but the bracelet that I was wearing slipped from my wrist. And being in a silly, lovestruck daze, I was none the wiser. I just continued on my merry way, back across the street toward home. Just as I had stepped onto the opposite corner, I heard his voice again, calling out urgently over the hundreds of other voices. When I looked back over my shoulder and I saw him weaving through the crowd, I realized he was shouting at me.

Instantly I seemed to lose all feeling in my limbs as I waited for him to catch up, wondering what he could possibly want.

"Excuse me, miss? Ya dropped yer bracelet," he said breathlessly, holding out the silver band in his hand.

I tried to hide my delight with an expression of confusion and sincere gratitude; I was grateful for his discovery, but I was more intrigued by the extended interaction we were about to have. I took the bracelet from, hooking it back around my wrist.

"Thank you so much!" I gushed, unable to help myself. "I did not even notice it was missing! It was kind of you to return it. Is there anything I might do for you?"

The words just spilled from my mouth before I had been able to think them through properly. I held my breath as he seemed to be deliberating my daring proposal; he had no idea that I would have done _anything_ he asked of me.

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_A/N: I would love to know what you think so far! Thanks!_


	3. Chapter 3

After some careful consideration, the smallest of smirks twitched at his lips. "What's yer name?"

I'll admit, I was startled by the simplicity of his question. I expected him to ask for something more, something else. I hesitated; if I told him, he would finally have a little piece of me. It would only have to be that little piece.

"Alessia," I replied, feeling a bit breathless though I hadn't done anything to warrant the condition. Unable to tear my eyes from his sun-browned face, I watched him smile, certain that my knees would give way at any moment. I wanted desperately to ask him his name, to have a small piece of him to take back with me, but I resisted the impulse afraid of what might come from it--and even more so of what wouldn't.

None of that mattered, because he stuck out his hand and gave it up willingly.

"I'm Mush," he said smoothly, completely unaware how alien his name sounded to me initially.

I blinked and did not accept his hand right away; his curious name had caught me off guard. I gaped at him for a moment, which went passed the realm of politeness and voiced my confusion. "You are called Mush?"

He chuckled, though not in a way that made me feel silly for asking him about it. He seemed amused, like he had never considered how silly it might sound to someone outside his circle of friends.

"Actually, my name's Andrew. Andrew Meyers, but--uh--my friends, they call me Mush."

I smiled politely and nodded, but I still wasn't satisfied. "Why?"

His cheeks colored with embarrassment; my heart practically stopped.

"Yer gonna have to ask my friend Blink. He's the one who came up with it."

Ignorant to the whole newsie lifestyle and traditions, I had no idea what to say in reply so I gave him another polite nod and then tentatively reached out my hand to accept his. When his rough, calloused hand took mine, a kind of electric shock jolted through my arm and I felt my knees wobble unsteadily. I silently prayed for the strength to keep me from completely collapsing right there on the street; somehow I remained on my feet. I never wanted to let go. I simply wanted to stay in that moment forever, but reality always refuses to let that happen. I gave his hand a dainty shake and smiled.

"It is nice to meet you, Mush."

"Likewise," he replied simply.

When our hands fell away from one another, it felt like I had lost something very dear to me--and perhaps I had imagined it, but I thought I saw a similar trace of sadness in Mush's eyes when he let his hand drop to his side. With an awkward silence settling in, I knew that reality beckoned. I had to return home for my lessons; my mother would be beside herself if I was late. Not that being late for lessons would matter much now; my day had already been disrupted. I knew the rest of the day would be impossible to deal with--concentrating on lessons would be out of the question--now that the barrier between the newsboy and I had been broken.

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"Alessia, pay attention," my mother snapped. She had been peering over my shoulder watching my clumsy attempt at cross-stitching.

I knew my stitches were much too wide for her liking, but I didn't care; sewing was one of my least favorite pastimes. My mind always wandered as I worked on the intricate little patterns, typically resulting in sloppy, uneven stitches, which irritated my mother to no end. I simply did not have the focus for such a tedious task. Today was especially difficult, considering what had happened earlier that morning. How was I expected to concentrate on anything with that boy invading my every thought--that newsboy called Mush.

Lessons had been as dreadful as I had anticipated; my mind was simply not where it should have been. Halfway through I could tell that my tutor, Ms. Savard, had grown tired of my distracted behavior. She scolded me a good many times more than usual for slipping into daydreams and not focusing on my assignments. Even writing, the subject I enjoyed the most, would not hold my attention for very long. At the end of lessons, Ms. Savard left in a huff, muttering to herself about not being able to teach those who didn't want to learn--and I was left thinking that such crabby old women should not be schoolteachers. After all, I had tried my best to learn, but the information would not process. The lack of effort wasn't entirely my fault; I was preoccupied by something that was beyond my control.

"Oh leave it," my mother said, snatching the fabric from my hand. I blinked and stared at her blankly, waiting for the instructions that would follow. "It will be ruined if you keep that up. You'll have to pull the stitches later. Now scoot!"

I dodged the flicker of her hand and hurried away from the drawing room, not the least bit sorry to get away; I would finally have some time to myself so that my mind could wander freely without any interruptions. I went up to my bedroom, threw myself down on the window seat, and leaned against the sill so that I had a full view of the street below.

It was late in the afternoon and I knew that Mush would not be there at this late hour, but I wasn't really looking for him; I simply wanted to look down on the place where the source of all my daydreams had occurred. But he was there, selling the last of his newspapers. My heart skipped, delighted by this discovery. I watched him for a while, fascinated by each movement and captivated by the sound of his voice, but dreading the moment when he would sell his last paper and leave.

It was during a lull in the traffic that Mush paused for a short break in his routine; with his free hand he took his hat from his head, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and replaced it. He looked around absentmindedly, trying to pass the time. It was then that his gaze fell on my window and he caught my eye.

My heart fluttered and I knew my cheeks were coloring. Inwardly I was horrified at the very thought of being seen by him, but I could not bring myself to leave the window. I was frozen, unable to tear my eyes from him. He appeared frozen as well; he hadn't moved or even looked away. Our eyes remained locked on one another, embarrassed and--in my case--enamored by this happenstance.

It was then that I knew my life was about to take a turn.

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_Reviews appreciated!_


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